Category: journey

pressure… {fmf}

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay4 Comments

I had a conversation this week with a fellow childhood sexual abuse survivor, and we talked about raising children. While she was able to have her own children, I of course could not. What I found fascinating, in our discussion, was the same internal pressures had remained. While I was a foster turned adoptive mother, this intense pressure to CREATE AND BE BETTER for the kids in my care, was debilitating.

Not having a context for what a normal, healthy family should look like, I constructed ideas based on the opinions and insight of professionals, books and statistics. So often, as complaints would rain down about this, or that, I would respond stating that this child was so lucky they had parents who loved them, their needs met and ___________. The reality was that while I had known a childhood that was not at all like the significantly better one I helped design for them, they had also known something far worse. In so many ways, we didn’t stand a chance.

I was killing myself, inside, trying to be the difference.

There is a lot of unhealthy information attached to adoption and foster care. Promises that love is enough, or that children are resilient. Listen, children ARE resilient, but so is trauma, and trauma leaves scars.

No one picks up the megaphone to share about the pressures placed upon both the parents and the children.

It was an odd comfort to know my new friend had felt these same pressures within her natural motherhood journey. A reminder of the scars that trauma leaves…

A realization that pressure traumatizes too.

{This post is an exercise within the Five Minute Friday writing community. To read more, go here!}

the chicken or the egg…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

I was part of a writer’s workshop over the weekend which centralized around the philosophies of Virginia Woolf. One of the chosen exercises encouraged us to take a favorite short tale and retell it with more flowery, poetic, and meandering writing. A later exercise asked us to remember a time when we fell in love with a favorite book. We were to mindfully bring ourselves into the action while describing details about the book, day, moment, emotion, etc…

For the first task, I chose The Little Red Hen, my beloved Golden Book from childhood. When the time came for the second task, my mind was still on The Little Red Hen track. I wanted to record the exercises here for one day- for something. I don’t know why…

~

The crimson feathered hen’s heart ached at the decisions her dearest loved ones continued to make as they allowed her to do all of the work while expecting to reap the rewards. Each of them, the hen included, shared the same dream.

She was drained tired but knew the warm, white bread would be worth it.

Wings in mitts, the hen reached into the brick oven and brought the steaming loaves out, “These smell like heaven!” the hen exclaimed with a satisfied sigh, while the mental countdown began as to when her friends would show up expecting to fill their bellies. Her gentle heart hated to deny them, but she knew it was for their own good. These friends needed to learn the value and sacrifice found in hard work…

~

Was it the first time, or simply a time? Had my mind followed the words a thousand times before, their story not quite sinking in, or were they exploring the tale, brand new? Either way, their meaning settled upon me like a dawning.

Criss-cross legs on the floor. Bookshelf Papa built looming over head, books piled high on shelves and stacked low on carpet, surrounding me.

I wanted to reach into the pages and let the weary hen rest in my arms.

Muted rays of light attempted to flood this space beyond my tiny, tin framed bedroom window, as salt-tears traveled down my cheeks for her, the tired hen. Those friends should help her, and do their share. Of course, they cannot share in the bread! I raged angry and protective, appalled at the injustice of it all.

I would sit in this same spot, with these same pages, for years to come. Even as a middle school girl, loving boys and carrying life’s heavy luggage, this hen held space for me… and I for her. To this very day, one-million lifetimes later, this sweet hen’s story still wounds me. She was so tired and yet they would not see her. She gave and she gave, those around her only chose to take and take and take… Even me really, holding her story and tracing her pages, those deep red feathers giving me far more comfort and friendship than anyone had bothered to gift to her.

I loved her.

I am her.

is it because I foresaw it then, or did the engraving of this hen upon my small-girl-soul direct my path?

chasing normal…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

On Saturday evening we had friends over for dinner. We ate my husband’s special Chorizo Tacos (this man is incredible, I’m telling you!) and played some really fun games. There was laughter intermittent with deep discussion. It was all so normal, triggering moments of memory from the Great Before, while also feeling not normal at all.

That last part is tricky.

As our friends readied to leave, just after midnight, one of them hugged me and said “Let’s not wait a year to do this!”

A year.

The last time we’d seen these two beautiful souls, who live minutes from us, we were at the wrap of 2019. In context, that feels like insanity. Last year lasted so many eternities that the thought of having not seen these friends since BEFORE that is unfathomable. It is almost like we saw them, some weeks passed, we hit pause and then they came over for tacos.

How do we measure life within that pause?

In hugs?

I have hugged my husband a billion times. I hugged my dear friend Maggie several times, back in October. I have hugged my sweet friend Amanda everytime I’ve seen her, which feels regularly, but in all actuality may only equal 8 or 9 times within that year. And then, then Saturday I hugged Ashley and Jessica.

It would seem the span of pause is measured more in isolated conversations, mentions of the virus, bizarre weather patterns, deep self-realizations, and face masks.

We are heading out of town next week where face masks and hugs will be a plenty. I love to go and am so stir crazy, yet the thought of being somewhere else is giving me anxiety. Is it safe to go?

Let’s be honest, it is fair to also ask if it’s safe to stay…

My husband is vaccinated and I’m awaiting my turn. While I wait, I long for sun on my face, adventure and a life lived. Within this paused space of isolation, it is clear to see the toll life has taken on my body and my health. Autoimmune illness has had its way with me, leaving me crumpled in the corner, used. Something has to change, and that chase is what I’m here for. Whatever lies at the end of this new quest for anything other than this, will likely not look like anything that came before- and that’s ok. Changes happen, we evolve.

I am different now, just as life is different.

Even so, I’m ready to step outside and look for normal. My laces are tied and the sun is shining, wanna come?

just a case of the february…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

I hit the second half of February in solid migraine form. I was in bed, living in a heightened state of nausea. The following week my husband had his second dose of the Pfizer vaccine and he was down for the count for three blurred-together days. (his blur, not mine. I was clear headed, but they were unnaturally long days.) The day that he felt human again was the day I was knocked back down:

fever.

chills.

migraine fest.

fatigue.

It was like we were tag-teaming on the worst part of winter blues and seasonal illness, except that he had a reason and I really did not.

In this era of C-19, when every sniffle raises a heightened paranoia, I made the decision to label whatever mystery was bringing me down (life? fibro? stress?) as February.

Are you feeling better? What do you think it was? I am, and February. It was February.

It works, don’t you think? It works because February is possibly the worst of the months. Winter is dragging on (or unfairly pummelling Texas, if we’re lasering in on this year) and though the days are growing a bit longer, it doesn’t matter too much when it’s still cold outside.

Beyond realizing that February is my least favorite of the twelve months, I thought I’d take this end-of-the-month reflection time to share some other things I’ve learned through these past four painfully long weeks:

  • Our little rescue kitten Darcy is nine months old. No one told me that nine months would bring her heat cycle. It was short, but those days were intense. Mostly we both just felt so bad for her. Bless. Also, our vet can’t get her in until April… Will she cycle again? I know nothing… except that the vet will only see her 8 weeks POST cycle so fingers crossed she does not.
  • Because we could not go out for Mardi Gras (something we love to do, even if we are here in the north), I decided to make some Creole food at home. The dirty rice was pretty meh, but the shrimp dish I made was PHENOMENAL and the beignets were a bit like heaven. All in all, a win.
  • A fellow writer talked skeptical me into joining Clubhouse. I was 100% convinced it was stupid and I’d hate it. It turns out it’s timely, pretty fantastic and I love it. Since so much of my job and passion involve community and connection, it has been an incredible experience.
  • Meundies. Have you heard of them? I was told they were the “softest and most comfortable underwear on the planet” and, once again, I was super skeptical. I was wrong. They are heaven. Also, here’s a code to save you $20. Trust me, you WANT to save it to this.
  • I spent moments in February coming face to face with my pride. Really questioning why something may have hurt my feelings and realizing it was up to me to keep myself in check. Sometimes that self reflection can feel really scary and trust me, I am no expert. Growth can be painful, but these growth moments were so healing.

And now, we are practically at March. A beautiful, closer to Spring blank slate and I am here for it- tired, but ready…

when the rivers join…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

Over the weekend, my husband and I were sitting around a fire pit with some friends. We are having unseasonably warm weather, here in Pennyslvania, and it felt good to try and capture some of the “normal” we’ve lost due to the pandemic.

At one point my husband mentioned growing up near the river, and spending his youth swimming in it, jumping in, etc. I smiled a little bit, because while he and I did not know each other when we were younger, this was something that we had in common. After a twenty-seven year journey with this man, I looked at him and said “the coolest thing about us both doing that separately, is that eventually our two rivers came together.”

And it’s true.

Often, though rivers join, they also branch off again. It happens. It is natural. No matter whether they are patched with rapids, or pitch-black depth, these flowing bodies of water hold life. They are life.

So many of us want marriage to be this beautiful union, and it is. And sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes you’re in sync and other times it feels like you’re so incompatible that it may destroy you.

It’s normal. That’s life.

Sometimes the rivers branch off, but sometimes they come back together.

Today marks a special anniversary with this man and I. This man who is my partner in this winding life of adventure. We haven’t had a perfect relationship because no one does. We’ve had a real, honest and lived one, and honestly, that’s what counts.

I couldn’t imagine sharing the darkest parts of my life, or the brightest, with anyone else.